


Overtime

by mm8



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mycroft's Meddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 03:05:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mm8/pseuds/mm8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade has been working overtime at the Yard and Mycroft has had enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overtime

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade downed his fourth cup of coffee of the day and it was only ten o'clock in the morning. 

"Here's Anderson's report, Sir." Sally casually dumped a thick report on his already cluttered desk.

Rubbing his eyes he said, "Thank you, Donovan. Are there any new leads off of the CCTV?"

Sally shook her head; her usually bouncy hair was now limp and lifeless, barely moving with her head. "No Sir nothing yet. But we haven't exhausted all our leads yet."

He gave his colleague a weary smile. "Good work, Donovan," and waved her off.

The sergeant hesitated for a moment at the doorway. "May I speak Sir, strictly off the record?" Donovan waited for a dramatic pause, leaned in slightly, and whispered loudly, "You look like shit." Then she quickly bounded away.

Lestrade growled and buried his head in his hands. So what? So what if he looked like complete rubbish. What else would you expect from a man who hadn't slept in three solid days and was surviving solely on coffee, granola bars, pure adrenaline and nicotine patches? Anyone would look like shit. Well, maybe not Mycroft. His husband had an irritating ability to always look calm and cool under any situation. 

Mycroft…

The detective unlocked the top drawer of his desk and gingerly took out a framed photograph of Mycroft lying on a private beach in nothing but a pair of Bermuda shorts and sunglasses, beaming at the camera, and giving a small wave. He ran his fingertips over the picture, as if that would make him closer to his husband somehow. 

He hadn't seen Mycroft in days. His own fault, he knew. But they had been in contact through phone calls in which his partner would plead with him to come home or at least give his brother a crack at the case. Lestrade also had a feeling that Mycroft was keeping a close eye on him; he'd seen the CCTV cameras move and follow him on multiple occasions at multiple crime scenes. 

Lestrade looked up as he heard the faint sound of someone running toward his office. Hastily, he locked the picture back up and pretended that he was in the midst of looking over some crucial files when Dovovan burst into the room once more.

"There's been another one, sir." Sally gasped. "Chiswick."

* * *

His team was about to wrap it up. Like all the other crimes this serial killer had left behind no evidence. No clues for them to follow that might lead them to his capture. There wasn't even a pattern to the murders. It didn't matter if the victim was rich or poor, marital status, color or race wasn't an issue nor age. The youngest victim was twenty-nine and the oldest was ninety-three. The only things that linked all the murders were that A) all the victims were women, B) all of their homes had been broken into but nothing had been stolen, C) all had been stabbed with a weapons from the victim's own kitchen, and D) the murderer had written the number of people he killed so far on the wall in the victim's blood.

Currently, they were at victim number six: a fifty-year old divorcee who was a professional photographer. She didn't have many friends, was estranged from her husband and her only child, but a neighbor stated that the victim was at least thinking of dating again. This was confirmed when they searched her computer and found her dating profile, barely started. A neighbor had phoned 999 when he thought he heard shouting, domestic abuse, he said. Of course, when the rookie officers came around they discovered more than they bargained for. And since the "Numbers Serial Killer" was well publicized, they knew who to call at the Yard. Anderson said he had to go back to the lab to be sure, but he was almost certain that she had been stabbed over seventy times in the chest, legs and neck. 

"Sir," Sally touched his shoulder. "There's nothing more we can do here."

He nodded and followed her out the flat complex. On his way out he gave his card to some of the neighbors who were ogling the crime scene, the concierge on duty and to the owner.

As soon as he left the building, he found that there was absolutely nowhere to go. A long, sleek, black car was parked in front of the steps, blocking anyone from exiting.

"What the bloody hell!" exclaimed Sally. She knocked on the passenger side of the driver's window. "Hello!? Excuse me? You can't park here!"

Slowly, the back passenger door opened and revealed a young woman, dressed in black and busily typing on her smart phone. 

Lestrade gulped. He knew it, he just fucking knew it.

Anthea popped her head out of the car and briefly looked away from her gadget. "He wants to see you. Now."

Sally looked from the woman to her superior as a confused expression washed over her face. "What the hell is going on?"

He gave her a smile as best he could. "I think I'm being called for. I expect I'll see you in a few days. Keep me in touch on the case, Donovan."

The detective jumped in the car and was whisked away to his home.

* * *

He slammed the door shut as hard he he could. Mycroft would be angry and say it was not something a gentleman should do, but fuck it, he didn't care. 

"Gregory, you shouldn't be so cross with me."

His frown deepened and he ignored his husband as he dashed into the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets looking for his ground coffee.

"I had to do it." Mycroft pressed, easing his way into the kitchen and settling himself behind the detective. "I haven't seen you in 124 hours, 55 minutes and 33 sec—"

"You've seen _me_ plenty!" He whirled on his partner. "I've seen the cameras follow me. I wouldn't doubt if you had spies…"

Mycroft scoffed, "Don't be absurd, Gregory!" He tried to rest his hand on the detective's arm, but Greg smacked it out of the way. Mycroft let out an audible sigh. "Please, Gregory. Listen to what I have to say at least."

Lestrade huffed, abandoning his search and turned around to face Mycroft.

"Thank you," he sounded relieved. "You must understand; you have not slept or even taken a break since you got this case five days ago. That's unhealthy, Greg. Now," he held up his hand when Lestrade opened his mouth to protest. "I understand that this is probably the worst serial killer London has seen since Jack the Ripper. But that doesn't mean you should work yourself to death. You have a family and friends who care about you. Gregory, even the best detective inspector needs to rest and relax."

He stood there trying his best to look stoic and remain angry. But he knew Mycroft was correct and he felt like an arse. Lestrade shifted his gaze to a nearby chair, refusing to look in his husband's eyes. "I'm sorry."

Lestrade closed his eyes and suppressed a moan as Mycroft cupped his cheek, caressing his skin, and titled his face so he was forced to look at him. "It's fine, my love." Mycroft said, a soft smile on his lips. His entire face lit up as if he just thought of something. "Oh. Merry belated Christmas, by the way."

The detective blinked. "Oh no, I did miss Christmas, didn't I? God, I've been such a selfish arse."

Mycroft chuckled. "You had more important things on your mind than a holiday that comes around every December 25th. Nonetheless, I have taken the liberty and got you three days off from the Yard. So, we will have plenty of time to catch up." Mycroft gave him a swift, chaste kiss that ended too soon. "Now, it is time to open your gifts. Even Sherlock gave you something this year."

It was Gregory's turn to laugh. "That seems to be a Christmas present in itself!"

**Author's Note:**

> * Kudos are amazing and I will never stop asking for them, but getting comments, actual feedback from readers means so much. Taking five seconds out of your time can really make my day.
>   
> 
> * You can follow me on [tumblr](http://mm8fic.tumblr.com/).
>   
> 


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